Youthful Optimism

Mock Exam week chez the Ritters.  Our pride and joy is walking around looking deathly white and complaining of a headache.  I do the only thing I can which is provide zero coca-cola for the late night studying and plenty of pre-exam hearty English breakfasts followed by vitamin tablets in horse size quantities.  My whole week is dedicated to driving him to and from the school throughout the day under a leaden winter sky, dodging the black ice and the snow falling off the roof in boulder like quantities. It is a good week for not doing much.  I have devised an outfit which takes me from bed to car and back without looking like pyjamas so that all that is required in the morning is pulling on a pair of Uggs.

At the end of yesterday’s Maths mock he came into the kitchen and said,

“I’m happy.  Of the three hard questions on the Maths paper I managed to almost finish two.”

“And the third?”

“I had no idea what that was about.”

“?!” I replied.

“I’ve told you Mum,” he said in a voice used to placate belligerent toddlers, “Higher Maths is like a puzzle, it will all come together in the end.”

 

Living with an adolescent male around the house is not without its challenges and surprises.  Last night we had an argument at the table concerning his over-use of the word stupid (as a writer I deplored his lack of eloquence) but then 10 minutes later he gave his sister, who was caught up in a demonstration in Geneva on Saturday, a precise and historically accurate account of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

He is either a genius or drunk on youthful optimism.